Rising Tides by Emilie Richards

why,” she said.
    She found her parents in the dining room. Her mother was polishing silver. Her father was reading the New Or leans States-Item and finishing what looked to be the most recent of a dozen cigarettes.
    The picture was one of domestic bliss. She tried to remember how often she had seen her parents this way. At home they were seldom in the same room unless they were giving a party. Despite that apparent lack of intimacy, she had no reason tobelieve they were unhappy together. On the contrary, they seemed perfectly suited. Her father’s career had become her mother’s, too. Had she married a simple attorney or businessman, Cappy’s life would have revolved around bettering their position socially, perhaps striving toward the day when her husband would be declared king of carnival, an honor truly understood only in New Orleans.
    But Cappy had married Ferris Lee, and had been given more to strive for. First the state senate, now the governor’s mansion. There was even talk of a run for the presidency somewhere down the road. Ferris lacked George Wallace’s sneer and vicious rhetoric, but he shared his political and social views. How many of the women who had worshiped President Kennedy’s smile, if not his politics, would come flocking to Ferris Lee Gerritsen for both?
    When she realized her parents were waiting, Dawn explained where she was going.
    “I don’t understand why you’re pursuing this,” her mother said.
    Dawn picked up a platter and rubbed her thumb across the edge. “Just think of it as emotional silver-polishing.”
    Ferris stubbed out his cigarette. “Your mother and I are going out for dinner.”
    Dawn was surprised. “What does Spencer say?”
    “There won’t be a problem, though I’ve got half a mind not to come back anyway.”
    “You don’t mean that.”
    “You don’t know what I mean, darling.” He lit an other cigarette.
    She turned to Cappy. “Use your charm, Mother. Make sure he comes back.”
    Cappy gave a real smile for the first time since their reunion. “You always ask me for the impossible.”
    Dawn couldn’t remember ever asking Cappy for any thing except her love. But perhaps that was exactly what Cappy had meant.
    Ben was alone on the gallery when she returned. “I’m ready if you are,” she said.
    “Let’s get it over with.”
    The path was as badly overgrown as she’d feared. Morning glory and creeper screened dead and dying trees, and the still air was heavy with the scent of decay.
    They reached the garconnière without having exchanged one word. Dawn gestured toward the steps. “I’ll go first.” At the top, she stepped aside and gestured toward the door. “Voilà.”
    With no ceremony, he took the key from his pocket and thrust it into the lock. He turned it, and the door swung open.
    He faced her. “Surprised?”
    “More than a little.” She entered first, since he was obviously waiting for her. Her eyes adjusted slowly. The room was the size of a French Quarter bar. There were six windows, old-fashioned double-hung panes grimy with dirt. Everything was just as she remembered it; in fact, it was hard to believe anyone had been inside in a decade.
    Ben whistled softly. “Such wealth. How am I going to get this back to San Francisco?”
    The idea was so ludicrous that she had to laugh. “Shipping the dust will eat up your life savings.”
    “Got your key handy?”
    “See anything I could unlock?”
    He went to the nearest window and used a corner of a faded green curtain to dust it. The room grew subtly brighter, and she followed his lead, until all the windows had been wiped down. “I guess we’d better start some where and work our way around the room.”
    “Did your grandmother ever throw anything away?”
    “Apparently not.” Dawn approached an old chest with a cracked marble top. All the drawers opened easily. Something rustled in the corner of one, and she slammed it shut. “Mice.”
    “If that’s the worst we find, we’ll